


summer dream

by WhimsicalSparky



Category: Vocaloid
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/M, Fluff, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:20:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27024166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalSparky/pseuds/WhimsicalSparky
Summary: you're in love with a fisherman and you hesitate in dragging him to the depths.
Relationships: Kagamine Rin/Utatane Piko
Kudos: 7





	summer dream

**Author's Note:**

> me, coming to the pikorin nation with a galore of purple prose: hey guys, i am here to feed u :)

It's simple: you're in love with a fisherman with hair like silvery snow, a single curled strand defying gravity and hook-shaped as if he's going to fish the moon from the sky, and gem-like eyes against sun-kissed skin. He fishes up distant dreams as much as fishes with glimmering fins to sell at the market.

And you hesitate in dragging him to the depths to devour him.

.

He's not surprised at your appearance before him as much as he's in awe, like a lovestruck boy plucking flowers and leaving them at his crush's windowsill. You wonder what he thinks of you—your golden braids reflecting off sunlight in a halo-like fashion, your blue eyes with round pupils shining white, your scales glistening amber and orange up your arms and down your torso to your gossamer-light tail.

"Hello, miss," he greets with a lunette smile, "are you a mermaid?"

You don't respond and instead muses, "You're a fisherman." He nods eagerly. Above their heads, the sun casts a simmering heat and you feel like floating in a summer dream that you would forget upon awakening yet treasure in the depths of your mind.

.

"My name is Rin."

"Rin." Your name rolls off his tongue sweetly, almost reverently. "Nice to meet you. I'm Piko."

.

Sometimes he hauls nets to the sea and retrieve unlucky schools of fish caught in the trap. He warns you to keep some distance before he does, just so you won't be among the ones thrashing to escape. You laugh when his catch is too heavy and he's instead thrown into the azure waters.

Sometimes he hums songs whilst waiting for fish to come and bite. He prefers this because it's less raw strength to hurl his catch into his boat and more idling and admiring the calm waters. You join in his songs, turning them into duets once you memorize the lyrics, and ask about his life and his family.

Piko isn't from a family of fishmongers; misfortune had fallen upon his family, wrenching them from a life of relative comfort and forcing them all to make hard decisions and take active roles in the household, which is thankfully modest in comparison to others and thus easier to maintain. He is glad he was never much of a nouveau-riche flaunting his wealth with shiny trinkets and oil portraits and expensive parties.

When change came, he was shocked. Saddened. Had a short period of denial while brushing his fingers on his mahogany desk and the embroidery of his coats, because he could never imagine something like that happening. But then he rolled up his sleeves and went to work; he learned how to catch and clean fish from a good-natured man he calls his mentor, became acquainted with regulars at the market and grew into a better self.

"My father didn't accept it as easily," he says with a sigh, reeling back a thrashing tuna. "He blamed anyone for the loss of wealth, prestige and status. On his first opportunity, he eloped with some doe-eyed noblewoman who took pity on him and left us to rot." There's no anger in his voice, you notice, though it remains slightly bitter.

And you think, this—Piko—is so different from your society. Grudges run poisonous and hot for centuries to come, destructive as the storms that topple ships like clumsily built boats and chip away cliffs. Pleasantly different, really. You like the change.

.

"Tell me about you," he murmurs, a finger brushing a wayward strand out of your eyes. You sit with him on the rocks, away from people who would try prying secrets of immortality from you or cut you open for the same reason. You sometimes give him a light poke on the bare soles of his feet, grinning at his awkward chuckles and his toes cracking with a soft sound.

You feel inclined to call yourself boring in comparison to him. He knows nothing about the weariness of witnessing empires built with blood and bone and become mere history for archeologists to dig up its remains.

(Isn't this how it goes? You're a mystical being in love with a mortal, in love with his earthly qualities and his determination to survive and the beauty in features so frail and easily marred. And he's in love with you and your ethereal existence and your melodic voice and your impossibly beautiful face complemented with rows and rows of teeth for scouring flesh from the marrow.)

So instead you tell him what he wants to know. It doesn't matter if the ending is the same.

.

You never tell him that you're a siren, not a mermaid.

.

You find it amusing, that he's not enamored with the sea from the beginning like most pearly-eyed fishermen and jolly sailors. It's a slow process learning its secrets whispered by the wind, sinking into the murky waters until his lungs scream, swimming his way to the endless horizon where the sun sets.

It's how it is with you as well; he's intrigued with your existence but he waits patiently for you to swim closer and serenate him, treats you like you are the beginning, the middle and the end of a purple prose-ridden story and talks freely about his wishes because he doesn't believe in whimsical favors from an ocean god—he will make them true with his own hands. At some point his hands are warm with affection.

.

And you're in love with him.

Even though you are nevertheless a predator and he's meant to be your prey.

You hunt other men, rotten with greed and scorching with lust, and satiate your hunger. It doesn't matter, though you wonder sometimes what he tastes like. Its tenderness when sinking your teeth into, the warmth flooding your mouth. Is he spicy from his fiery determination? Sweet like his singing voice? It's a little morbid, not something uncommon to your people.

.

Piko comes to the shore one full moon night. Insomnia plagues him once his mother contracts an illness, and you gladly keeps him company in his sleepless nights. He kisses the space between your eyebrows and says meaningless vows as easy as it is to breathe; you reciprocate by trailing kisses on his neck and up to his lips. There's something thrilling in making him shudder like this. Your stomach screams with hunger.

It doesn't go beyond this, but that's fine. You'll hunt later.

"Rin," he murmurs against your hair, "you have really sharp teeth, don't you?"

You pale. Maybe you did brush your fangs on the surprisingly smooth skin of his neck, daydreaming about his taste. "Mm. Did I hurt you?"

"No, no," he laughs, lighthearted.

He fingers your pendant—a treble clef carved from marble and gold; a gift from your parents on your 104th birthday, a parallel to your brother's bass clef of obsidian and silver—with childlike curiosity, as if searching something in its delicate shape.

"You're not really a mermaid, are you, Rin?"

.

Well, maybe you don't have to tell him. He can figure it out himself.


End file.
